


In Another Life

by mrs_schoolweek



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Bromance, Chronic Illness, Finger Sucking, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, More angst, Parenthood, Porn with Feelings, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4145664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_schoolweek/pseuds/mrs_schoolweek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immortan Joe and the Bullet Farmer were best friends and lovers once. Time has passed and they have made so many bad decisions there is no turning back. They are old, they are sick and they have sexual inabilities. Still, there may be some comfort and warmth to be found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KellerProcess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/gifts).



> This story mentions Joe's Wives in a canonical way, but details about their (or anybody else's) non-conny adventures are not given. This is just gross old men bromancing/romancing/god-I-don't-even-know kind of thing.  
> Story written for a madmaxkinkmeme prompt. The Very Anonymous Prompter wanted something with Joe/Kalashnikov.

Joe was sitting by his desk, cleaning his gun. To himself, he was just Joe, not Immortan or bullshit like that. He was just a man. A man, who'se hands were getting worse every day.  
Cleaning guns, stripping guns, building guns... all that had been natural to him before.  
Now his hands had gone cold and stiff, his nails blueish and his eyesight blurry. Old age, he told himself. Just old age, nothing more.  
He recognized it as soon as the distand sound echoed from the corridor for the first time.

Tap, tss, tap, tss, snap.  
Tap, tss, tap, tss, snap.

Joe sweeped the gun quickly to a desk drawer and sighed. Once, that sound had been different. 

Tap, tap, tap, tap, snap!

The sound of ”danger is over”, the sound of ”ten minute break”, the sound of cigarettes and half-grins and passing a canteen from hand to hand.The sound of his long-standing companion.  
Now that all meant nothing. That was the sound of trouble incoming, the sound of services and returning services, more duties and worries to a false god. They were no longer companions. War lords and false gods had no friends or companions. Just allies.

Kalashnikov's ritual had always been the same.  
Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, snapping fingers. Made him feel safe, relaxed.  
But there was now a crack in that, had been for a decade or so. The right foot never rose quite right, fingers brushed together lighter, the sound was broken and imperfect.  
Fits quite well actually, he thought to himself, moving closer to Joe's door. The world was broken now, their ideals imperfect and tainted. These days, nothing snapped in the right way.  
He told unceremonially guards and warboys to fuck off and entered the room, sighing.  
There he was, Kalashnikov's colonel. His companion. His friend. His lover.

And the first glimpse of Joe revealed, how broken the world really was.

”You are here”, Joe said. His voice was grey, toneless. Kalashnikov sighed.  
”I am here.”  
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Finally Joe harrumphed and tossed a notebook to Kalashnikov.  
”I want you to make me a 15-barrel gun using various ammo”, he said. That reanimated the Bullet Farmer to life, painting his features with a burst of sudden anger.  
”And I want to kill you, Moore. That is not... It is not even theatrical, just plain stupid. Use multiple guns, fuk-ushima. If you have nothing more to say, have a good day”, Kalashnikov spat and turned around, ready to head back to his vehicle. Joe gulped.  
”I... had something else to discuss as well. In private”, he told the other man with a low, cautious voice. Kalashnikov frowned and stopped.  
”In very private. Let's take my ride”, Joe spat out and grabbed his respirator mask. 

 

After a hour of ride or so, Joe stopped his Gigahorse in the middle of the desert and glanced the other man. Kalashnikov glanced back. He knew this was something else than the ordionary mad god bullshit and absurd requests.  
Joe swallowed and tapped the wheel.  
Do it quick and then it's over, he told himself.

”Do you... feel your fingers? And toes. Do you feel your fingers and toes, Kalashnikov?” he asked. Kalashnikov recoiled. That was the other Joe's voice. Insecure, worried. From the before. The question made his skin crawl and his mouth go dry. He wasn't sure what to say.  
Suddenly Joe was pulling off his leather gloves, pushing his hands in front of him to see.  
”Do you fucking feel your fingers?!” Joe grunted. His palms were pale even without the paint, fingertips light purple and nails cool blue. Kalashnikov blinked and answered slowly:  
”Joe, I know that is not what you are asking me now. You have seen me walk. What is it that you really want to know?”

Joe didn't know. He didn't fucking know!  
He grabbed Kalashnikov's jacket and gragged the man out of the vehicle, pushing him on the sand before him.  
Kalashnikov scorned, didn't even bother to grab his gun. This was just good old Joe all tense and running too hot for whatever reason. Let the idiot make noise and let out some steam.  
”Fucking tell me! Do you feel your goddamd fingers!?” Joe was grabbing his jacket again, squeezing real hard, panting. Kalashnikov let him.  
”Do you feel your fucking cock?!” Joe yelled, voice so pained and broken it hurt.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't get to the smutty part as soon as I thought, but it's coming, I promise. This is my first story here so I'm super nervous and apologize all the mistakes that are around for sure.

”Joe”, Kalashnikov said, a hand around Joe's wrist. The larger man was still holding his jacket but the change of balance of powers shivered in the air and Kalashnikov felt it under his fingertips.  
The man, the false god, his colonel and the war hero was all cracked and corroded, ready to shatter on touch.  
”Joe, sit down. Let go of me and sit down”, Kalashnikov rasped and with a gentle move of his hand, pulled Joe on his knees in front of him.   
”Let's get this straight. Are you asking me if my junk's numb?” the Bullet Farmer asked, hand still around Joe's wrists. The man flinched.  
”Yes... and no. I'm asking you if... did something happen to you after Operation Mayberry?” he almost whispered, all the typical cockiness and bravado gone from his voice.

Kalashnikov sighed and bowed his head. Joe did too, leaning their foreheads together.   
”I figured that out too, seven-eight years back. Has to be Mayberry”, Kalashnikov admitted. 

Sun baked their shoulders, lured old burns on surface again, promised sweet, radioactive heat.  
It all reminded Kalashnikov of their times before. Victories and losses, pleasures and pains, mistakes and adventures. It hadn't been half bad, thinking about it now. Or maybe it had, but he'd forgotten.

Joe had been different back then. Kalashnikov still had his stupid military photograph somewhere. For identification purposes only, of course.   
He remembered those blue eyes being brighter, more honest and more rough. Younger.  
Joe's hair had been different, too. A messy tuft of copper-shaded hairs, every single of them disobeying army standards with pride. When had they changed? After Mayberry, Kalashnikov guessed.

”So... You don't feel your fingers or... or cock either?” Joe asked, tracing veins of Kalashnikov's arm with his thumb. Funny thing to ask, thinking about it. He wasn't sure if Kalashnikov had ever been much of a cock-person really. Maybe he wouldn't even notice...

Kalashnikov smiled a little, seeing a corner of Joe's eye twitch. He knew what the man was thinking. Maybe years and wars and they themselves had separated them allright, but Joe Moore was always Joe Moore.   
Even behind that pompous facade of a living god... Distasteful genital jokes, Kalashnikow knew that better than anyone.   
His companion, his brother in arms, was still there, somewhere. In another place, in another life, things could have gone differently.

”I have been asking abouy it around”, Kalashnikov admitted and laughed a little.  
”I don't have this whole immortality legend buzzing around me, so... But back to the point. You are right, it propably was the Mayberry...”  
For a momen, their memories drifted to the same direction. A city in ruins, this same boiling-hot sun on them. It had been bold, mad and more stupid than any of them had figured out. Just a hit, grab the stuff and run -kind of gig.   
And then again, not.

They remembered all that marching in deep puddles of murky water and the smell of ash and decay and wet concrete in the heat.   
They remembered the nausea and fever, blurry days knotted together like wires and death walking among their group like a honorary guest.   
They remembered holding each other, harder than they had ever held before.

”Did you know they used dirty bombs?” Kalashnikov finally asked, after all this time. He knew anyway, knew Joe's stupid arrogance and impatience...   
He had known for years and been too bitter to ask. Joe's answer took him by surprise.

”If I had known, I would have gone by myself”, the man said and placed his hand on Kalashnikov's shoulder.   
”Moore, lie like that to me again and I'll kill you”, Kalashnikov hissed. Joe looked to his cold eyes a long while and shook his head.  
”I have done many things in my life I'm not proud of, but never lied to you”, he said and then, out of an impulse, leaned closer to press himself against the other man.

Kalashnikov went still. They had had their moments but this... was not Joe Moore. He never did shit like this. Except when he was completely sure one or both of them were dying.   
Oh, that was it.  
”You think Mayberry's killing us?” Kalashnikov asked almost gently and pushed Joe away.  
”Well, you know what, old man. It is not killing us, not for a long time. So get the hell away from me, fuck off to your home or whatever and figure out another way to bang that tacky harem of yours.”

A sudden emotion flashed in Joe's eyes like an explosion. They were on the hot sand now, Joe's body pinning Kalashnikov under him.  
”I don't want them”, Joe snarled and felt an urge to hit the man, hit him until he understood.  
”I don't fucking want to bang them, or breed them, or whatever! I don't want to see them, for fuck's sake”, he spat and felt so bitter he just wanted to make Kalashnikov feel that too.  
”Then why are you doing all that shit?” Kalashnikov sighed. He knew Joe wouldn't harm him. He was upset, yes, but Joe never really harmed him. No need to fight back.  
”Because it is already too late... Isn't it?” Joe muttered and buried his face against Kalashnikov's shoulder. And he was right, Kalashnikov knew that. It was too late for both of them.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really think I'll get to the smut in the next chapter. I would love it if you said something (anything) in the comment section because yeah, this is my first story here and one of my first >1 chapter stories in english ever.

On their way back to tha Citadel Joe emitted a dry laugh. Kalashnikov raised his brow.  
”What?”  
”My boys are real jerks, you know. Wives too”, Joe said, shrugging his shoulders:   
”I've given them chances for years now. Left the Vault door open, introduced my best locksmith-kind of a boy to the Wives, 'forgot' chastity belt keys to their bedrooms. I think Coma Doof may be the only one who's got the point so far.”

Kalashnikov looked surprised.  
”I thought you wanted to keep the good stuff to yourself. Juiciest cunts in the Wasteland and... what was the other one?”

”Roundest tits? You're right, it was fun at first”, Joe admitted, drumming the wheel with his numb fingers.  
”Hasn't been for years, though. They don't... I just want to give the girls a chance, really. I wish I hadn't talked all that shit about the 'promised heir' in the beginning. Could just have promoted one of my war boys by now”, he said.   
Kalashnikov nodded. Right. It made sense now, all that exaggerated god nonsense. Dumbass Moore was just trying to keep the myth alive. 

”So... you don't bang them just for fun?” he asked. The Joe he had known decades ago would definetly have done just that. Then again, those decades ago he would have gladly watched. Now it would have been just tawdry, disgusting even. They were no longer the war heroes girls wanted. Anything but, to tell the truth.

”No. I don't want, and can't. Or well, I can, but don't feel shit”, Joe muttered. Kalashnikov grunted. 

For a long time, silence hung in the air like a sand storm awaiting to release it's whole impact on them. When Citadel's gates opened befote them, Joe glanced Kalashnikov.  
”It will be dark in less than an hour. You can spend the night here if they don't wait you home tonight.”  
”There's nobody to wait for me, Joe. And that's not my home. It's just the place where I keep my property.”

 

Skull pints. Doddamn skull pints!

Joe had taken that viking bullshit way too far, Kalashnikov decided as beer splashed on his lap from the pint's eye socket. Why on earth could't they just eat and drink like normal people?!

”Just tell them to bring us glasses, fuk-ushima”, he sighed. Joe shook his head.  
”I can't. I happened to tell them we're going to feast like gods tonight”, he answered, regretting the very same thing.   
”That's why we have a whole damn goat here?” Kalashnikov groaned and stabbed the overcooked roast with his fork. The meat had been barely touched.  
”That's it. Hell, we should just... Fuck this shit, I hate goat and warm beer”, Joe spat and yelled for a servant to take the food away. When the table was empty and there were just the two of them left, he stood up, locked the door and walked to a safe.  
”I still have some whiskey, if you're interested”, he suggested and Kalashnikov nodded. Better. 

They drank whiskey and talked about their fallen brothers for a long time. So long it almost made them forget the years apart and all the ugly deeds. Almost.

Kalashnikov felt warm. Alcohol-induced kind of warmth, dull and slow, but warm anyway. Even his right foot, nowadays mostly cold and aching, buzzed with circulation.   
Joe seemed to feel that too, stretching his fingers. The colour of his nails had turned from light blue to light beige. 

They sat on the floor (for old times' sake) and took small sips from the almost-empty bottle.

”How do you handle your guns, Kalashnikov? When your hands are, you know...” Joe didn't want to mention the topic in the Citadel out loud. Kalashnikov smiled bleakly.  
”All fingers aren't equally bad. My trigger finger's still pretty good, actually. I also attached straps to my working gloves, to hold tools better”, he said with a low voice. 

Joe nodded.  
”Sounds like you. I bet your corpse goes cold berore you let off your guns.”  
Kalashnikov sneered. Maybe it was the alcohol, but this was clearly his great moment.  
”I won't. Rigor mortis. I'm going to die all stiff, Moore”, he breathed. A surprised grin creeped on Joe's face little by little.

”Was that a joke, Kalashnikov?”

”Was it, Moore?”

Hell, Kalashnikov wasn't guite sure himself. But fuk-ushima, it was good to see Joe smiling like that. He had missed that smile.   
It died quickly, though, leaving a cold emptiness behind. These were not the old times and this man wasn't his companion. Just an ally.

Joe brushed Kalashnikov's index finger with the side of his palm. So lightly it seemed almost accidental.   
But Kalashnikov knew the were no such accidents with Joe. The man did as he pleased.

”You're drunk, Moore. So... This is the point when you call like, five-six of your women here and throw me a inflated show about how well you can still please them? Let me guess: you have a flame-throwing, rocket-launching, neon-lighted strap on here somewhere?” Kalashnikov said, his atypically wide grin just barely covering the nervous feeling in his gut. 

Maybe, just maybe Joe would get mad at him, they could get to sleep and he'd leave in the morning without re-opening any more old wounds.

But fuk-ushima it all, of course Joe didn't get mag. That fucker roared in laughter, slapping Kalashnikov's shoulder way too hard.  
”I've missed you, mate. I knew you were there somewhere”, he laughed. 

That was a lie. He hadn't known, just hoped. 

He had treasured his first custom gun in a safe for decades now. Ridiculously oversized revolver, ”Mjölnir” engraved to it's barrel. Kalashnikov had given it to him, claiming it would end his constant need to brag about his ”godly hammer”.

This man had had a sense of humour once.   
His man had had a sense of humour.   
His man.

The scent of whiskey and Joe's breath hit Kalashnikov's mouth like a missile impact. There was no time to react. No back-up plan.  
The world fell apart again.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm pretty glad to say that even if this is not quite smut, it's a promising pre-smut! Guess what the next chapter will be!
> 
> I have to warn you all beforehand that this chapter contains... well, cronical illness described graphically (though I really tried to make it non-yucky) and something that could be read as mild dub-con, I guess.

”Fuk-ushima, Moore”, Kalashnikov gasped, trying to back off. Just a few inches and his back was against the headboard of Joe's bed. Shit. 

”I'm sorry”, Joe sighed and rested his palm on the other man's arm:  
”I'm so fuckin sorry for everything. For us, and all this warlord bullshit... And my tacky harem and... Fuck, I'm sorry.”  
Kalashnikov wasn't quite sure what to do but he could tell this was not the typical Joe that got handsy and talkative while drunk. This was something much more hopeless. Final.

”Me too, Moore. I'm sorry too”, he managed to say, leaning back towards Joe and wrapping his arm clumsily around his shoulder.  
”I just wanted... I wanted to raise my son with you, Kalashnikov”, Joe sighed and pressed his forehead against his man's shoulder. Kalashnikov winced.  
”What? Fuk-ushima, you're incredibly drunk, Moore!” he hissed. Talking about fallen brothers in arms and sharing an accidental kiss was one thing and talking about having goddamn children together was completely another. He tried to retreat, Joe pressing against him even harder.

”No, I meant... When my mother died, my dad's brother moved in. Never left. We, the three of us, used to go camping in a forest, and read Robinson Crusoe and The adventures of Tom Sawyer, and building miniature planes. My uncle and dad teached me to shoot and fish and drive a car and... They died when I was 17, crashed our car, idiots”, Joe muttered:  
”I just wanted to have someone like that, too. To have you. To teach my son to hunt and fish together and to grow up with a good father and... Shit, Kalashnikov, I'm sorry.”

”What would you have wanted to name him, Joe? Your son? Would you have named him after your dad or your uncle?” Kalashnikov asked gently. He got it now, all this crazy bullshit. Let Moore let it out.

”I... No, I always thought about something like... Bacchus, Fire-Bear, Jotun... Or if it was a girl, maybe Saga of Flames”, Joe admitted. He heard Kalashnikov chuckle unintentionally and raised his head.  
”What? I thought about those for a long time”, Joe grunted. Kalashnikov was desperately trying to look serious and respective, rubbing his temple.  
”Fuk-ushima, Moore... Those are... How did you even... Dear god.”

After a while of silence he ran his index finger along Joe's spine, sighing:  
”You know what I think? It's not a son you miss. Fishing, adventure books, model planes... You're thinking about your childhood, Moore. The old times.”  
And suddenly their lips met again, cold and trembling. It was an act of desperation, too much pain and longing to be said out loud, sorrows and mistakes and bitterness melting together between them.   
Joe twined his fingers to Kalashnikov's hair and Kalashnikov dug his nails into Joe's arms. Too gently to make him bleed, too harsh to be a caress.  
It was too late, it was too late, it was too late and they fucking knew that but still...

”I don't want to live like this, Kalashnikov. I'm fucking dead already, can't even...” Joe's words faded away as he pressed his nose against the man's neck. They were breathing heavily now, visions hazed and half-numb fingers trying to hold on to something nonexistent.

”You're not dead, Joe”, Kalashnikov groaned. His palms, ever-diligent and tender, mapped the uneven skin of Joe's arms. All the scars and sores, passed years and the never-easing tension.   
People were mostly just things to Kalashnikov, but some things he liked. Things like weapons and Joe, things his hands understood and he could picture with the brush of his palms.   
Joe was out of order under his touch, loaded but trigger broken, dangerous and hard to predict.

”I can help you if you let me”, Kalashnikov whispered, shocked that he had spilled the thought out loud. Joe went still.  
”You'd kill me? I didn't think... That means a lot to me, friend, but not today. This place still needs me”, he groaned. But gods help him, he wanted to say yes. To die tonight, his companion's gun against his head and all his worries taken away.  
Seeing the yearning in Joe's eyes made Kalashnikov's heart ache. Oh, if just he had meant that. He'd thought about it so many times yet he knew it was not the answer he was looking for.   
Living hurt and he just had to let it hurt.  
”I won't kill you, Joe. But I'll make you feel alive if...”  
He never finished that sentence. 

Joe lifted Kalashnikov up and pushed onto his bed roughly, desperately. He didn't know what he wanted to do or what he could do but he wanted to find out. Years of frustration burned on his skin like blisters and his heart pounded too fast, reminding him of all his wrong deeds and bitter disappointments. Kalashnikov's skin was cool and sweaty against him, soothing.  
”Joe, Joe, Joe... Fuk-ushima, Moore, let me breathe!” the man scrambled back under Joe's weight, head spinning. Goddamnit, he wanted this but the jerk couldn't wait, couldn't take orders... Just like he never did. The thought made Kalashnikov's mouth twitch.

”Shit, Kalashnikov, I... Fuck, I need you, I... What the fuck are we doing?” Joe was panting now, tugging off Kalashnikov's shirt. He presumed he was a little hard too, but it was hard to tell. Couldn't feel too much.   
Or, in fact, he felt a lot. More than in years, their mixed hot breaths and trembling hands and dampness of their skin, and it was all absurd and wrong somehow. He had been so used to senseless fucking, all about hydraulics and impressive performance and this was nothing like that. This was pure need and desperation, blended together with feelings so long buried there was hardly more than a bitter ghost left. Despite that, or maybe because of it, he wanted Kalashnikov more than ever.  
”Do you trust me, Moore?” the man breathed against his ear and Joe nodded. Hell yes, he had to.  
”Then lay down”, Kalashnikov told him. Joe blinked. What? He never did that. Not with him, anyway.  
”Lay on your back, Joe. Let me help you. Trust me”, Kalashnikov muttered. Slowly Joe nodded.

Stripping down in front of his companion wasn't hard for Joe. Letting him see what he had become was. But Kalashnikov just shook his head softly, brushed Joe's side with his wrist.  
”I always told you you take too many naps and too many snacks, Moore”, he said, more teasing than anything. He'd never been too much into beauty. Skin was skin, flesh was flesh and these skin and flesh belonged to the man who he'd cared for more than anyone. Besides, Joe was warm under his touch, so alive. He was so pale, blue veins running beneath like underground rivers, deep scarring crossing skin like ruined roads, freckles and sores painted over small lumps under the surface. 

If Kalashnikov hadn't been with Joe during Mayberry, hadn't been with him always, what he saw might had startled him. But to them, these were just memories engraved in flesh. Ancient runes marking their story. History of loss and pain, history of victory, history of love and bitter separation.  
Kalashnikov had changed too, Joe could see that. At the same time, he hadn't.   
Scars and lumps and blossoming patches of wounds were just that, surface. A look into Kalashnikov's eyes revealed something more. His friend, his companion, his right hand man.

”Joe, you can not fuck he and I can not fuck you. You realize that?” Kalashnikov half-whispered. Joe gulped. Yeah, he got that. He knew that. And he wished he didn't.  
”Will you let me do something else?” Kalashnikov asked, pushing gently Joe's thighs apart and suddenly the man was scared. His mouth was dry, heart drumming an odd beat. He wasn't sure what Kalashnikov was up to, but it felt wrong. He had never let a man between his legs-  
”Damn, Kalashnikov... What are you...?” He wasn't sure what to say, how to ask him stop. He wasn't sure if he wished the man to stop.  
”Not going to hurt you, Moore. Just trust me, let me help.”  
”Goddamnit, Kalashnikov. Stop!”  
Kalashnikov looked at him, half-confused, half-angry and sighed.   
”Moore, you are not a textbook example of asking permissions yourself. Relax, trust me and shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those names Joe mentions... The ones he wanted to give to a son/ a daughter, well... There's a secret behind those and it makes them even more horrible. That's the name of my own son. Not literally, but his first names really mean a god similar to Bacchus, firebear and a giant. And I really thought that if I'd gotten a girl, she would have become Saga of Fire. I know, I know, there is nothing more to be said. I just need my own Doof Wagon and a bunch of kami-crazy war boys and the show is ready, I guess. It just appeared to me while writing this how fucking absurd names I give.


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, smut finally happens!

Joe wanted to protest. To say he wasn't gay and would never let a man... 

Kalashnikov's thumb brushed his thigh, warm and slow. His gaze wandered on Joe's nervous face.  
”You're always been odd, Moore. You can fuck girls when everybody watches, you can fuck men even when everybody knows... You wanted to raise your son with a man and still you're afraid of letting me do this. Why? Do you think you'd become 'more gay' somehow?”  
Joe found himself laughing nervously. Hell, Kalashnikov was right. His logic didn't make much sense. Still, this felt unsettling.

”I'm not doing this to humiliate you, Joe. Trust me, like in the old days”, Kalashnikov whispered, caressing Joe's thigh with his palm. Joe took a deep breath and welcomed the touch, muscles relaxing against the heat. Kalashnikov was right. He had trusted him once, maybe more than trusted himself.

”That's better, Joe. Much better. You... feel this, right?”  
”Sure, nothing wrong with...” Joe's words blended into a muffled gasp. Kalashnikov raised his brow.  
”Sensitive? That's new for you. When was the last time you fucked?”  
Joe felt corner of his mouth twitching. That was hundred percent Kalashnikov, as bad sexy talker, dirty talker and pillow talker as ever. He talked that way to his guns while taking them apart and reassembling. Made mental notes to himself, wondered functions, listed problems.   
Kalashnikov reached for Joe's hand, grabbed his wrist, pulled his fingers so close they almost touched his nose. They were warmer now and the colour was better too. Maybe...  
”Kalasnikov, what on earth...” 

Kalashnikov nibbled his fingers, more curious than erotic. Mapping the magnitude of his nerve damage, looking for sensitive areas. When Joe hissed a little, he stopped and grinned.  
”This one? Lucky bastard, Moore”, he muttered, pulling Joe's thumb between his lips. His mouth was wet and slick, so hot it made Joe's head spin. Fuck, it was good.   
Kalashnikov fondled the thumb with his tongue, looking for spots that would make Joe hiss and groan again. Brushed his wrist with his skilled fingers, drew small, invisible circles. And Joe hissed.  
Kalashnikov nodded, rolling the tip of his tongue gently around Joe's thumb.  
”Fuck, help me already...” the man breathed, voice desperate and low. He had erection now, numb and frustrating but clearly visible. Fucking Kalashnikov and his weird...  
”I'm helping you, Joe”, Kalashnikov whispered, letting his hot breath flow against Joe's palm.  
”Fuck, help me more then”, the man practically cried out. Kalashnikov grinned.  
”Always so impatient... Joe, you should appreciate my efforts”, he said, yet his hand was already reaching for something in his pocket.  
”Look at that, Moore. Just sucking yoyr finger and you're already a mess. I wonder what happens when...” 

Kalashnikov always had a small bottle of oil with him, to keep his lips from chapping and hands from going stiff and sore in the harsh desert. But of course the oil had other functions too.  
”Relax”, he told Joe softly, coating his right hand's fingers with oil.   
Of course Joe couldn't relax. What had seemed to be an almost good idea was becoming more and more terrifying every second.  
”Kalashnikov, I don't think...” 

Kalashnikov's trigger finger had always been nimble. He had it in Joe's ass before the man could finish his sentence.  
”Well, Moore, I think you will enjoy this. It's pure mechanics, really”, he said, pushing a little further. Joe let out a small gasp.  
”See? Not numb all over, are you?”  
Definetly not numb. Joe was struggling between the need to back away and an equally intense need to get more. The feeling of Kalashnikov's finger in him was almost overwhelming, making his breath shaky and his body too hot.

”You've really never done this before, have you?” Kalashnikov muttered, moving his fingertip as gently as he could, searching for the most sensitive spot. Joe shivered, trying not to moan again.  
”No... I haven't”, he muttered, clenching his teeth together. Damn Kalashnikov wouldn't get him...  
A loud sigh escaped his lips, body pressed against the intoxicating sensation.  
”Here? Definetly here. Let's see what two will do”, the man said, mostly to himself, and slid a second finger next to the first one.   
”Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, stop it, stopitstopit...” Joe was almost sobbing, pale fists squeezing sheets. His head was spinning.  
Kalashnikov stopped, letting Joe's body relax against him. His other hand was on the man's hip now, caressing it lightly.  
”Am I hurting you?”  
”No, no, please... I... no, doesn't hurt”, Joe moaned, trying to steady his breath. Kalashnikov gave him a pleased smirk.  
”Then I have to assume your reaction is a request for more”, he muttered and started to fuck Joe with his fingers. Gently, slower and more careful he'd have fucked anyone else. The sensation was odd, his good finger lined next to a mostly numb one, Joe's heat and oil's slickness around them.

”Kalashnikov...” Joe's voice was little more than a breath now, vision so blurry he could barely see the other man's face.  
”Moore”, Kalashnikov sighed and reached for Joe's hand, pressing it against his mouth again.  
The thumb slid into his anticipating mouth eagerly, brushed against the wet heat of his tongue. Damn, Moore was close already. His whole body shivered, hips rocked against Kalashnikov's fingers and hand clasped his jaw. What a slutty man, getting it to the ass for the first time and already moaning and asking for more.  
Kalashnikov gave his thumb a good suck, rubbed his fingers against Joe's most tender spots. The sound Joe emitted as he came was sweet, a muffled attempt to not cry. Orgasm rolled through his body slowly, so intense it left him breathless and blue-lipped for a moment.

He got back to reality little by little, tension inside him easing and heartbeat steadying. Kalashnikov pulled his fingers out very gently, knowing how new this was to Joe. He wasn't some savage who'd fuck almost-virgins senseless and go in and out like a war rig.  
Coming to think about it, that had always been Joe's style. It would have served him right. Kalashnikov chuckled.

”Goddamn, Kalashnikov... Don't tell me you learned that tinkering with your guns”, Joe muttered, resting on his back like a tectonic plate. He felt so relaxed and heavy he could almost have fallen asleep just now. If he wasn't with Kalashnikov, that was. Gods only knew what the creep would do if he fell asleep.  
”You have taught me many things, Moore. For example over fifteen painful ways nobody should ever fuck a man”, Kalashnikov sighed with a grin.  
”Bullshit, you loved it when I fucked you”, Joe laughed. Kalashnikov sneered:  
”Or maybe I loved you.”

Awkward silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think Kalashnikov deserves his turn in the receiving end, please let me know!
> 
> Lol, just gotta tell this. My companion started telling me yesterday about his newest amazing idea. Said it would be "awesome" if there was a 8-barrel gun that could shoot from all the 8 barrels simultaneously. I asked if he had read my story and he was like, "no, why? It just sounds awesome and useful." No more quessing where my odd ideas come from.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was meant to write smut. Wrote sad ending. Sorry.

For a moment Joe thought about kissing Kalashnikov. Maybe doing a favor to him too. Maybe...

"You really overcompensate, Moore. You just have to have the biggest car, most ridiculous gun, largest, most unpractical loudspeakers in the goddamn world... It's all about you and your cock and your godhood", Kalashnikov muttered, pulling his jacket back on.   
All the warm air in the room was sucked out at once. Brotherly smile on Klashnikov's face was gone. Joe's fingers were numb again.

"You say you don't want your wives and then you fuck them anyway.   
You say you miss the old times and yet here you always are, sitting on your pale, fat ass and watching your handsome boy-soldiers do all the work for you.   
Immortan fucking Joe wants a gun, 15 barrels and all, hell yes, and he's not going to listen to the best gun expert around, hell no.   
Immortan fucking Joe is a fucking god and he does as he pleases", Klashnikov hissed, caressing the revolver tucked under his belt. 

Joe flinched. It was getting Klashnikov too, he could see it now.   
Radiation, madness and sickness, corroding away everything they were and had and had once had. Losses puncturing holes. Years of bitter war and pain slashing away all hope and comfort.

Pain in Joe's eyes brought Kalashnikov back a little, reminding how far he had drifted.

"Moore? I think it is time for me to get out of here", he said.   
Joe nodded. 

Kalashnikov was about to leave when Joe got up and went to him, wrapping his arm around his companion's sinewy shoulders.  
"I am sorry about Mayberry, and everything after", he sighed. Kalashnikov went still. They were too far apart. It was too late.

 

Kalashnikov came back every once in a while. Sometimes they talked, sometimes slept together. A couple of times, they even gave gifts.   
But the most important things were never said out loud.   
That Joe's semen had turned rusty red.   
That Kalashnikov sometimes woke up a gun in his hand and a dead man by his side and didn't remember the night.   
That sometimes Joe really believed that he was a god.   
That they feared death.   
That they seeked for it.

But sometimes, in his sane moments, Kalshnikov looked at Joe's stupid military photograph and smiled at his rebellious hair.  
Sometimes Joe tooK his first custom gun and caressed his numb fingers over it's engraved barrel.  
Sometimes, they prayed for the non-existent gods of Afterlife that this one time, a broken man could live and die and live full again in the halls of Valhalla. And that thought kept them going, slowly dying year after year.

In another life.  
Maybe.


End file.
